Poison
by Daimeera
Summary: I'm twitching on this cold, white chair, trying to suffocate everything inside of me that's trying to escape. You do the crime, and you do the time. I guess I hoped the law wouldn't apply to me. One-shot.


It's so easy to judge from the other side of the wall. I was always the one screaming about murder and death and justice-alienating my best friend and even my mother in the process. I wanted them to hurt for even thinking about it, yet here I am now, sitting in that waiting room, my priorities in reverse alignment. 

It wouldn't be so bad if I had the courage to let go of my convictions, but still in the back of my mind, I'm screaming the same obscenities. I hate that I'm even in this situation, that I have to face myself in the mirror and admit how ugly I could be, how vicious. Perhaps in the end, I defended her, but I never really forgave her until now, and I think it's too late. I threw it in her face whenever I could, yet here she sits, holding my hand, and telling me it will be okay.

She knows I'm panicking. She knows this is a big deal. And she knows how much I hurt her. But she's the bigger person. As immature as some accuse her of being, as mature as they may assume I am, she is the one taking care of the situation and I am just the unfortunate bystander who happened to get involved.

I'm twitching on this cold, white chair, trying to suffocate everything inside of me that's trying to escape. Everything spiraled out of control and I was too stupid to pick up the pieces. You do the crime, and you do the time. I guess I hoped the law wouldn't apply to me. God knows I've gotten around it before. But here I am, sitting, waiting, praying for forgiveness to an unknown being, and wishing more than anything that I could disappear.

I had to do this, and I saw now what drove women to the brink, made them want to destroy the thing inside them. I knew the torment, the words that were waiting to happen if you dared show your hand.

I ruminate day in and day out over what the hell I was thinking, what it was that made me think any of it was a good idea. I could pull out any number of excuses, but the truth was, I made a rational decision when I was in a rational mind and I blamed it on everything I could think of just to avoid taking responsibility. I'm a fraud. The cool-headed, environmental slave is a fraud. The shadow-of-herself near-victim? A fraud. I'm the same girl I've always been, making excuses, telling myself I'm right, and blaming everyone and everything under the sun for that which I, and only I, bear the responsibility. I get away with it, and always have, although I don't know why. Maybe it's the blond hair, blue eyes, innocent daughter of a teenage fling. I don't know. Perhaps it's the fact that I attack first, and hard, and no one dares provoke me. But it works. Whatever it is, it works. So what if I can't bear my reflection in the mirror? At least I am absolved of responsibility.

I want to scream. I want to wake up and discover that this is all a dream, and go on in self-delusional bliss. I want to pretend I'm not a hypocrite, not a champion of whatever the hell suits me. and intolerant of whatever makes me squirm in discomfort. I want to believe that I had no part in tragedy, that I influence only for the better, that I am right. Always. But here I sit, an alien in my body, and wait and pray that no one will ever discover what I do at night when nobody's watching.

It's been five minutes, but it seems like five years. What am I supposed to do if anyone else walks in? What am I supposed to do if anyone sees me sitting in this chair and discovers what I truly am? I'd hide out in the bathroom again, but I imagine the receptionist already thinks I have a case of chronic diarrhea. It's time to suck it up (and sucking is a tad more familiar than I care to admit) and give the evil eye. If all else fails, I can always blame it on the girl by my side. The world would believe me, and god knows I haven't hesitated to blame things on her before. Sure, there might be some guilt, but I'm good at ignoring that.

Deep breaths. I. Must. Not. Panic. I am in charge, as always. I can force people to do what I want them to do, and that is all I need.

It's time now. Time to face the music. I will myself not to tremble, and my muscles tighten and do as they are told. I tell them to smile, and they do. Nothing is wrong. If I can only convince everyone that this is natural, that it's the way things were supposed to be, I'll be okay. Queen of deception, I can deceive even myself.

I'm strong. Damnit, I know I am. Who else could deal with all that I have dealt with? Who could suffer the disagreements, and the betrayals? It is the fact that I am strong that allows me to do this at all. If I were weak, I'd be hiding in the closet, crying, and doing what everyone always expected of me, should this happen.

Right?

Tears are for the weak. Remorse is for the weak. And oddly enough, with my ex-best friend squeezing my hand and the whir of machinery, I feel no remorse, no regret. I'm made of steel, and it's only a matter of time until everyone knows it.

A sympathetic smile buys only one of my nastiest glares. Why would I need sympathy? I am in control. I am fine. And I will march out of here with my head held high, daring anyone to defy me.

I am what I say I am. I'm not a hypocrite, and I'm not wrong. I never have been, and I never will be. I am morally superior. I am emotionally superior. Anyone who says differently is wrong-it's black and white.

I walk out of the building, chin in the air, and dismiss her. I don't need her and never have. I brought her along out of pity. She needs to feel needed, but in reality, no one needs her. Least of all me. I need no one.

So what if no one needs me?


End file.
